Remember to wash your buttocks well," was the sage advice given along with our change by a smiling pool attendant in Stykkishólmur. Our teenage girls prickled with embarrassment each time we were reminded of this pre-swim etiquette. To enter an Icelandic geothermal pool, you need to be thoroughly washed. Such is life without the irritation of chlorine.

Every town in Iceland appears to boast an outdoor pool complete with steam room and a variety of hot pots. No surprise given the abundance of water and volcanic energy. "This country," our daughter quipped, "could be renamed Steamland."

The plan had been a four-day road trip to the finger-like point of the Snaefellsnes peninsula, with lofty expectations of glacier walking and whale watching. The reality was four days of northerly gales and drifting snow. So we retreated to the water, soon discovering that the hot pots were both very affordable and at the centre of town social life.

As the gales raged around us we chatted with the locals immersed in 40C water, gleaning recommendations for the best coffee in town and the various conditions of the roads and the national economy – both deteriorating it seems. But the roads were good enough to get us to Deildartunguhver. A steaming plain where 180 litres spout out of the ground every second – most of it tamed and piped to the town of Akranes, where we later wallowed in the sulphurous water we had witnessed earlier.

One night was spent in the mountains at Laugarvatn. The name means "bath lake", so hopes were high for something special, but the pool was closed. We had to make do with the hostel hot tub, a DIY affair that took 45 minutes to fill.

As we eased ourselves into the warmth of the tub, a wisp of something greenish shivered in the clear dark sky. The aurora borealis had come out to play. For more than an hour the whorls, curtains and streams of light pulsed in the darkness, only to be outdone eventually by the moon rising like a jealous understudy seeking the limelight.

By the fourth day our family were water-addicted. The final pre-flight fix came at Hveragerdi, circled by fells and looking like a 1930s lido. We sought refuge in the cave-like gufubad (steam bath) and compared impressions. Iceland was a country for the adventurous, we thought, but we finally agreed that we had never had cleaner buttocks.Graham lives in London

The judge, Dixe Wills, travel writer and author of Tiny Islands (out in April 2013) says: "Graham's opening line about buttock cleansing grabbed the attention and his tale of a holiday saved from disaster by the powers of heated water was a pleasure to read."

The prize: A week in a canvas cottage for six at The Dandelion Hideaway (01455 292888, thedandelionhideaway.co.uk), a working farm in Leicestershire.

Two teenagers and the Amish

Amish horse and carriage in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Photograph: Alamy

Our two teenage daughters began giggling as we drove peacefully through a succession of pretty Pennsylvania villages on our US family holiday. I suddenly saw why. The place we were approaching had a sign at the entrance: Welcome to Intercourse. My husband Bill frowned. "Staying here, are we?" asked Yasmin, one of my daughters. "Er, well, yes," muttered Bill, checking the address of our accommodation from the passenger seat. More sniggers from the back seat.

After four days of shopping and hedonism in New York we had chosen an Amish settlement in Lancaster County, to get away from the trappings of materialism and bond. The beauty of the autumn colours in the pale sinking sun seemed lost on the girls. Zoe, our other daughter, raised her eyes from her smartphone for the first time in an hour and demanded: "Will we have broadband and cable, like the hotel in the Manhattan?" I sighed.

The answer came as our guides drew up to our car on a simple horse-drawn buggy, wearing black bonnets and black gowns. They were the same age as the girls and introduced themselves with a bow as Sister Mary and Sister Sabine. "Please, follow us to your barn," they said softly, after explaining the settlement rules, which included compulsory breakfast at 7am followed by cow milking and fruit picking.

Our girls handed over their mobiles reluctantly, smiling through gritted teeth as our guides showed us to our straw beds and open-walled sleeping place near the centre of the Amish camp. As the sun set, Mary handed Yasmin a lantern to find her way to her bed. "I'm sure you will enjoy your stay here," she whispered as the girls gulped in amazement. "You are welcome to join us for songs after dinner."

"Sure," the girls echoed with total insincerity..

Amazingly, after two days of teenage moaning we found ourselves getting into the swing of things and our girls were actually enjoying themselves, doing things they had never done before. We spent more time together talking as a family as we cooked our simple meals on the open, wooden cooker in our "house". The girls went out to gather apples and berries and learned how to make fruit pies by following their Amish sisters' instructions. We roasted chestnuts we had picked in the woods and drank water from springs and wells.

We spent our last day together exchanging information and views on our different ways of life. The Amish seemed to live on another, Avatar-type planet, where life was different, with genuine values. They were a community with passionate beliefs who supported each other – not Manchester United or some fashion label. And the girls had fun and learnt something about life that years of talking couldn't give them.Gonca Cox, Hinckley, Leicestershire

Festival fun

Daisy, my eight-year-old daughter, pulled me by the hand towards the inflatable church. The sun had set and the air was blue, most of the tents and stands ringing the field closed for the night. I stumbled on the uneven ground and, looking up, saw around us other people, in wellington boots and shorts and funny hats, making their way towards the church and the tent next door that spilled music and coloured light on to the grass.

We ran into the thick air and the dancing people. I tried to hold on but Daisy was smaller and squeezed through and my hand slipped from hers. I had a moment of panic as I thought about what her mother would say if I returned to the campsite without her. It had been a joint campaign to persuade her to let us out this late "to go dancing", but I would be held solely responsible for any mishaps.

The theme of this after-hours tent was "wedding disco", and they played the songs that everybody loved but needed the cover of irony to enjoy completely. Daisy was in front of the DJ box, facing the crowd, showing her moves. When she held her nose and waved her other hand in front of her face like seaweed, everyone cheered. Looking around I was pretty sure we were the youngest and oldest there.

It had been 10 years since I'd been to a festival, kept away by children and logistics, and now I was back, at Camp Bestival in Dorset, the kind of family festival that has since been created for, well, people like me. And Daisy. A conga had started, and there leading it was Daisy, coming straight for me, and I knew that yet again I was going to have to break my strict "no conga" rule.

An hour later we were running back over the fields in the moonlight, singing like drunks, waking the sleeping teenagers, converging upon them from both sides, and as we sang up at the stars I knew this would not be the last festival we went to together.Jeremy Herridge, Woodham, Surrey